


How to Save a Life

by insominia



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia/pseuds/insominia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Courier wrestles with Boone's death wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Save a Life

**Author's Note:**

> Basically the closest I've gotten to a songfic without it being a songfic. 
> 
> Something I wrote with The Fray's 'How to Save a Life' in mind [read: on repeat in the background. Endless repeat.]

Boone was already half way through the doors when the quiet voice called, "we need to talk." He paused, but didn't stop, carrying on out of the elevator. "Come on, let's go sit down...just...talk to me," the courier said, almost pleading, realizing Boone wasn't stopping.

Boone looked back over his shoulder, ' _I never know what to say_ ,' he'd said once. Nothing had changed, Courier knew that. But they both knew that the talk was only ever going to go one way, Boone's input wasn't required or expected. Nothing was said that Boone hadn't anticipated anyway. Nothing he hadn't heard before. Just the usual, ' _I'm worried about you... I think you need to get help. I'll go with you... I really think it might help to go back there... Maybe it'd help anyway? I just...I just want to help you...please? ...at least consider it?...'_

Unmoving, Boone stared, blankly, throughout the speech. His eyes rested on a poster of the Lucky 38 on the opposite wall. Why had House felt the need to advertise his own casino _inside_ his own casino? Courier was still talking, Boone wasn't listening. Same speech, different day. The only change was the note of desperation slipping into the courier's words. Silence descended on them, quickly becoming awkward. Boone glanced back over his shoulder at his friend, attempting a polite smile, "I'll think about it, ok?" he said, with what he hoped at least _sounded_ like sincerity.

He could see the argument form on Courier's tongue, but just as quickly, it was gone. "Sure Boone," came the defeated response, "sure, whatever you say."

The sniper went on, heading for the guest bedroom. The courier stepped out of the elevator, found the kitchen and dug out a beer. Why even bother? These conversations, if they could be called that, never seemed to go anywhere, just seemed to alienate them, push them apart.

_Why do I bother?_

But every time that thought reared its head, so did the memories. ' _Heads up_!,' as Boone took out the legionary, the courier hadn't even seen him, despite his proximity... The concentration on the sniper's face as he fished out the bullet, even if he was too heavy handed to use the scalpel with any finesse... The wry smile on his face as the courier inevitably left him at the bar, disappearing with yet another potential conquest... Boone letting his guard down after a couple of drinks and saying how grateful he was to be travelling with someone of such ability, how much it meant to him...

_That's why_.

\---

He was getting worse, had been since the dam. Always taking first watch, but not bothering to wake the courier to take over. What sleep he did force upon himself was becoming increasingly fitful. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the canyon, the floods of Khans, none of whom deserved what was coming. Saw the children...

Sometimes he woke up yelling for more ammo, sometimes cursing himself and his unit, sometimes he would just roll over and tremble. What he wouldn't give for a slaving party, assassins even. The nightmares were getting worse since he didn't have the solace of putting bullets through Legion skulls. He'd thought driving them back would end all this. But it hadn't, Carla was still dead, Bitter Springs had still happened. And it would keep happening, every single night. Courier saw it all, rarely said anything, just got him water, soothed him when he needed it, and filed it all away for another time.

A time like tonight.

"Look, I know you think I don't know what I'm talking about, that I can't understand, and maybe I can't but I really do think it'd be for the best. Talking to someone I mean. Doesn't have to be me. I'd prefer a doctor but hell, I'd settle for you talking to Rex if it helped you. And it _would_ help you. I know that much." The courier paused, "were you ever this bad with Carla?" came the question, so soft and unexpected, Boone wondered if he'd imagined it. He glared across the fire at his companion, he didn't like talk about his wife.

"Did she ever see any of this? Wonder how she coped with it."

"I'll take watch," Boone rasped, grabbing his rifle, anything to get away from the fire, but the courier had risen with him.

"You don't sleep. I've seen you, you have those nightmares. You don't get any rest. You say you need to keep in shape but I've seen you "work out"...it's like a punishment for you. You used to look after yourself...You never talk about your wife, except to say how she was doomed the minute she met you, you never say anything good about her...or yourself. It's like you're not here! I'd say you have a death wish but you don't, I've seen you pull back when you're injured, so what is it? You don't want to die but you don't want to live either? _Goddammit_ can we just go to Bitter Springs?!" The shouting surprised them both, but the courier had gotten more and more agitated with each word, for a moment even offering up a prayer to a God, that had never claimed any allegiance before, that maybe now he would see. Maybe _this_ would be the turning point.

The rifle clicked as Boone loaded a shell into it, "I'll take watch," he muttered.

\---

From behind the raging sniper, Arcade caught the courier's eye and mouthed an apology, accompanied by a shrug that seemed to scream, ' _I tried_.' He'd already been on the receiving end of a surprising stream of abuse, from the usually so restrained soldier, and had no intention of sticking around for another bout. Boone was still going strong, letting loose at the courier who watched Arcade leave, the elevator announcing the doctor's intentions to return to Freeside, and stay there.

'Got no right pushing this!' Boone was shouting, at risk of forever destroying his reputation as a man of few words. This might have been the most he'd ever spoken since they'd teamed up at Novac, peppering his words with expletives that could make even Cass blush. _He's really lost it,_ the courier thought, keeping their face impassive, determined not to start shouting too. But Boone wasn't interested in hearing reason, even after he'd shouted himself hoarse, which actually didn't take all that long. Probably because he so rarely spoke, let alone railed at anyone. The courier's words washed over him. More of the same. More desperation. More pleading, albeit in a softer voice, as though to contrast with the resonance of the sniper's insults. 'You need to do _something_ ,' came the final plea.

Boone stared at the one he'd once considered his closest friend, and sighed, 'you're right.' He saw the flash of hope spark into Courier's eyes, 'everything you've said...you're right.' There was a note of finality to his words that had the courier on edge, any notion that he might actually be ready to accept help was quashed as Boone left. For a moment Courier couldn't figure out why that should bring on such a feeling of dread, it was hardly the first time Boone had gone for a walk to marshal his thoughts or quiet the gunshots in his mind. It was later that evening, much later, while still waiting for the sniper to return, despite the lateness of the hour, when the courier happened to glance at Boone's footlocker and saw, with growing trepidation, that he hadn't taken his rifle with him.

\---

He had a pistol. A pistol with two bullets. A pistol that was currently pressed against the forehead of the woman that had started all of this. She was an unremarkable soldier, one who had probably never actually soldiered a day in her life, spending her career behind a desk. She didn't appreciate what it meant to be in the field. Didn't appreciate what they were seeing when they radio'd in to tell her. When she told them to fire until they were out of ammo, she thought she was being appropriately dramatic. She didn't need to be questioned on her orders, especially ones so simple. Clear them out, she'd said. So they had.

There was no fight in her, she just sat there, still at the desk Boone had found her at, staring at him. She had the decency to cry at least, though mostly she looked confused. She'd begged for her life, naturally, Boone had said nothing. Naturally.

His finger was on the trigger when the courier's hand pressed down on the barrel, forcing it to the floor. Boone looked up into grey eyes. Nothing needed to be said, but Boone couldn't bring himself to move away, not out of a desire to remain and finish what he'd started, he just couldn't bring himself to do _anything_. In the end Courier had to physically drag him from the room, not that he put up much of a fight, all the fight seemed to have gone out of him. He was dead weight. But courier had carried him across the Mojave more than once, he could get him back to a motel room, even if Boone's arm was in danger of being wrenched out of its socket by the amount of pulling it would take.

The motel room was too dark and far too dreary, but it had a fridge that worked badly enough to keep a forgotten bottle of whisky at its optimum serving temperature. The courier poured a shot, then thought better of it and took a considerable swig from the bottle, neat.

Boone was in the next room. He hadn't wanted to share. Probably never would again, the courier mused, wondering if their friendship had finally come to an end, only a little surprised to find that the prospect wasn't nearly as alarming as it should have been. Too much time had been spent trying to save him from himself, they hadn't been _friends_ for a while now. At least Boone was alive. And he would go on living. Even if they weren't to travel together, maybe even if they never saw each other again, that would be enough.

The whisky burned on the way down, there was something about drinking straight from the bottle that didn't sit right with the courier, but the shot glass looked far too small for the bleakness that the situation warranted. The kind only hefty gulps of strong liquor could remedy.

The shot, when it came, muffled by the wall that separated them, was not altogether unexpected. Nothing stirred. The sound echoed, briefly, and died, quickly, in the silent room. When the courier eventually moved, it was to bring the bottle back up. The whisky burned, but not as much as the treacherous feeling of relief.

 


End file.
